Blast It All, Holmes!
by Kadigan
Summary: Watson wears many hats, but even he draws the line somewhere. Contribution to the "I'm a doctor, not a..." meme. Rating for swearing. 7 - The doctor's had a very long day. 8 - String-instrument posture is hard on the unacclimated physique.
1. Locksmith

_A/N: I could hardly impose a meme on Chewing Gum without joining myself, especially after threatening the poor dear with rotten vegetables. Here's my contribution; more will be forthcoming._

**Locksmith**

"Well, that tears it, Watson." My friend hitched his back farther up the rough plaster of the wall, staring down as if personally affronted at his limp, bluish, swollen hands. "I can't loosen these ropes, not with numb fingers. You shall have to free us both."

I nodded resolutely, rubbing gingerly at the raw skin of my wrists. Our captors had not done so thorough a job with my bindings, and with much twisting I had managed to loosen them enough to free my hands. "Tell me what to do."

"You'll need something for a lock-pick." Holmes' eyes narrowed, fastening on my coat. "That is the coat you tore on the grating yesterday, isn't it? Yes? Good. Mrs Hudson won't have had time to mend it properly before you snatched it back up; there will still be a pin in the collar. Find it for me, there's a good chap."

I had already slipped out of the jacket and begun to run my fingers along the collar, searching intently for the vital bit of metal. Yes, there was a pin, thrust right through the seam at the back of the neck; I extracted it and held it up for Holmes' inspection.

"Good man!" He flashed me a quick smile across the hallway separating our cells. "Now, you'll have to bend it very precisely. Tell me, is the lock on your door the same as mine?..."

For the next ten minutes we traded information. I tried to describe my lock to Holmes' satisfaction, frustrated by the growing darkness and my inexperience with burglary. He in turn struggled to demonstrate proper lockpick-bending, fumbling at bits of straw with his useless hands. Neither of us succeeded in conveying much that was of use. To make matters worse, by the time I had finally understood my task, it was so dark and my fingers so tired that I could not seem to bend the stiff pin as my friend wanted.

After the fifteenth time my sore hands slipped, Holmes forced a long breath through his clenched teeth and threw himself back against the wall. "Honestly, Watson! I thought surgeons lived by their dexterity!"

"That's a different matter entirely, and you know it." Stung, I threw down the pin. "Blast it all, Holmes! I'm a doctor, not a locksmith!"


	2. Cellist

**Cellist**

"No."

"But surely--"

"I shan't ask how you deduced it, Holmes. Some aspect of my hands--"

"Or the sheet music you preserved all the way from Afghanistan."

"--or perhaps some possession of mine, all right." I glared at him, arms akimbo. "I am still not doing it."

"Oh, come, Watson. You were good at this once; I daresay you rather enjoyed it."

"That was a very long time ago. I have changed. Besides, where would I obtain an instrument? Who would play the other two parts?"

"No other parts are needed -- it's a simple duet. You loved it at the concert last week. As for the instrument, trust me, I have connections."

I squeezed my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose in forefinger and thumb. "_No,_ Holmes. I am not playing."

"Watson!"

I rounded on him. "Dammit, Holmes, I'm a doctor, not a cellist!"

He let out a short, harsh sigh, and for the first time since our conversation had begun I saw him fully. He was the very picture of contained energy, seated tensely at his desk, practically quivering with his private urgency. The long bony hands rested on his violin in a gesture that might have been tender had those hands not been visibly trembling -- with nerves or with something more sinister, I knew not.

That sight -- those twitching hands – finally cracked my resolve. Holmes had not had a case in nearly two weeks, and the boredom was already tearing at him. I had woken only that morning to find him pacing before the fire, his glare stormy, the carpet under him visibly more worn than it had been the previous night. I had not played the cello in years, and I still worried how my wounded shoulder would stand up to it, but if my attempt would keep him from his more worrisome distractions then I had little choice.

I sighed and turned away from the window. "All right, Holmes. You win. You get the music and the instrument; I'll go and warn Mrs. Hudson."


	3. Hatrack

**Hat-rack**

Over the past several years I have had the misfortune to discover that, whatever else he may be, Sherlock Holmes is a perfectionist. When swift action is necessary, he _can_ move with all the slow deliberation of an avalanche; but when he has time to polish his work "properly", no dilettante was ever so fussy. I wonder that he ever puts a monograph up for publication, so finely does he insist on polishing the prose-- to say nothing of the care he takes in his chemical experiments! I have seen him toss out the whole results of a prolonged investigation and begin again, all because he dropped a single extra grain of salt into a full beaker.

Usually his disguises are spared this merciless honing, as he inevitably has a mark in mind and so must limit the time he spends preparing to go out. On rare occasions, however, he is given the opportunity to disguise himself for a goal which will wait, however long he takes. At those times, I learn once more why I prefer not to take any personal problem to my friend.

He stands before his mirror, examining his reflection in minute detail. With his nose mere inches from the glass, he would cut a comical figure were it not for the fierce disguise he is already wearing. Indeed, had I not watched him put most of it on, I should not have known him... but he is not satisfied. I force myself not to roll my eyes, but I cannot repress the put-upon sigh.

He takes no notice of my expression, instead dabbing another fine brush in a pot of powder to adjust fractionally the color of the shadows beneath his eyes. "Hmm... no, this won't do. This won't do at all. Watson!"

Another sigh escapes me. "Yes, Holmes?"

"I'll need a different waistcoat. This one is too worn, far too worn. The persona I need to wear today has more funds than _that..._ Where's the one with the blue lining?"

At his expectant gaze, I shrug. "I haven't the faintest idea, Holmes. Perhaps in that drawer, over there?"

With the sudden energy of a darting squirrel he flashes over to the chest; the drawer is open in an instant, and in another he's flinging clothes across the room. "No, no, too stylish -- too rustic -- not worn enough -- Ah! Here's one! Hold this for me, will you?"

I have no time to respond before the waistcoat is flying at me; I barely manage to catch it. "Honestly, Holmes!"

He takes no notice as he strips off the offending waistcoat. In one fluid motion he snatches the new garment from my arm, dumps the old one over the other arm, and slips his arms through the new one. In another second he is buttoned up and facing the mirror, once again frowning at himself.

"Goodness, no. That's all wrong! I'll need different cuff-links... different boots... Where's that hat?..."

Over the next twenty minutes he fairly turns his room upside-down, and I am of course the focus of it. By the time he's again facing the mirror, I am quite certain that if he tells me to hold one more object, I will scream.

But no, he is turning back towards me, once again frowning. He removes the hat of the moment and makes as if to toss it towards me, his mouth opening, the words on his lips --

"NO, Holmes!"

He freezes. "What?"

"I said _no!_ For heaven's sake, man! I'm a doctor, not a hat-rack!"


	4. Doctor

_A/N: This one subverts the meme a little bit._

**Doctor**

I'd thought him all right at first. We had expected an attack, and had both been prepared, so the roughs only had us surprised for a moment before we were back-to-back in the fray. From the scuffles behind me I knew he was holding them off, and so I concentrated on felling the pair of brutes attacking me.

It wasn't long before Scotland Yard appeared. To say so is an understatement; my shout brought plainclothesmen out of every corner, just as planned. Instead of two gentlemen with sticks, the thugs suddenly faced nine fully-armed police officers. Three of them even had the sense to surrender rather than force Lestrade's men to knock them senseless.

The fourth, unfortunately, was not so wise. Before the police could react, he aimed a final vicious kick at my friend. The boot shot through his guard and smashed across his ribs; he thudded backward with a startled grunt, slamming in turn into me. _My_ foot in turn caught on the cobblestones, and we both went down in a graceless tangle of limbs.

I leapt back up, ready to defend us both, but unnecessarily: Lestrade himself had just clubbed the ruffian over the head with his nightstick. Our attacker toppled silently to the ground.

"Thank you, Lestrade." Flashing the Inspector a quick smile, I turned back to my friend. "Are you hurt, old man?"

He was already picking himself up off the cobbles, his face set in a grimace of embarrassment. "I'm all right. That last kick was quite something, though!"

I grinned, extending a hand to help him up. "Oh, I noticed, old fellow—I say! Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

At my tug on his hand he had gasped aloud, pain flashing over his face. "Heavens! Apparently not. I... think I've cracked a rib."

Immediately I was down beside him, pushing him back to sit on the ground. "No, no, don't try to get up. Good Lord, man! Why didn't you say something?"

"I honestly hadn't noticed before. Flush of the fight, I suppose." He gave me a pained little smile as he settled back. "Really, you needn't worry. I'll be right as rain in a few weeks."

"Longer now that I've pulled your arm out of its socket!" I ground my teeth. "I should have _known_..."

"You couldn't possibly have." When I met this with a raised eyebrow, unconvinced, he took my shoulder and turned me gently to face him. I could not miss his amused expression. "Do calm down, Holmes. You're a detective, not a doctor."


	5. Bartender

**Bartender**

"One of these days, your _flair for the dramatic_ is going to get someone killed."

"Well, how was _I_ to know he had a heart condition? Here, help me lift him."

"Perhaps you could have listened when I warned you beforehand. Twice. ...Oof! Oh, goodness!"

"He's no lightweight, is he?"

"Considering his exalted rank, I should think his Lordship is rather above such worries."

"Indeed... We're going to have to bring him round, you know."

"Well, the brandy's in the usual place."

"I think not. I seem to remember that his Lordship cultivates a certain, ah, _refinement_ as regards beverages. Were he to come round with the taste of our poor vintage on his lips, he should be mortally offended."

"...You must be joking."

"I am not. And after the fiasco at London Bridge, you are as well aware as I that offending him is a rather poor idea."

"So what are we to do? He shan't wake on his own for quite some time, and Lestrade's waiting."

"I, well -- I had entertained some notion that you might concoct something a touch more refined."

"What? No, Holmes. I am the doctor here; I'll stay with him til he wakes. There could be danger yet, if your dramatics shook anything loose beside his wits."

"But I have no idea what his Lordship might prefer."

"Neither have _I!_ Blast it all, Holmes! I'm a doctor, not a bartender!"


	6. Demolitionist

**Demolitionist**

The warehouse was full of barrels. As we pushed its doors open, the moonlight fell on a vast lumber of wooden staves and iron hoops. Barrels of every conceivable form cluttered the vast building's floor and piled into vast mounds. The only hint of regularity in the whole place came of the rough timbers holding the roof up, which rose at intervals from the lumber and vanished into the gloom above. Even these were draped with immense bundles of rope and cord, all flowing into each other. All in all, I thought, the place looked rather as if some heavily-drugged Cyclopean spider had seen fit to build its web over the site of a recent rockslide.

These musings did not last long; after a moment, hinges creaked softly beside me. Holmes had let go his side of the door and was making to stride forth into the clutter. I caught his arm, perhaps a bit too hurriedly, but after the last explosion I was no longer willing to let him go far. He turned back to me, one eyebrow quirked, and pointed ahead into the mess.

I steeled myself, nodded, and released his arm.

With his usual quick smile he raised his dark-lantern and beckoned me forth. The door closed behind us, cutting off the sickly moonlight and leaving only his pool of yellow glow between us and stark blackness. As we ventured into that jungle of rope and barrels, the light swung from his hand and leapt over our environs, making the mess lurch about us with vague sinister intent. In but a few moments I lost all sense of direction. Any crooked corridor looked the same as any other.

Holmes was not so handicapped. He strode forward, peering with narrow-eyed minuteness into the tangle of cords and barrels. Whatever traces he followed, though invisible to me, held his attention as if magnetic. I prayed he still knew which way led out: if not, we had a long wait for daylight. We could not afford such delay.

Suddenly he froze in his tracks, throwing out a hand to stop me, and threw the cover over the dark-lantern. My world plunged into blackness. The hand on my shoulder tensed fiercely, the muscles iron-hard: before us, at eye level amid the tangle of ropes, a tiny spark crackled past in the darkness.

"There it is," Holmes whispered, the first time he had spoken since leaving the cab. "Come, Watson! Follow it!"

"Are you _mad?_ That's the fuse!"

"Unless you've a better way to find one barrel amongst thousands? I thought not. Come, man!"

His hand left my shoulder and his footsteps began to recede. "Holmes!" I grated. "I can't see!"

The feet paused. "Then wait there. I can't risk a light!"

Before I could protest he had gone. His footsteps faded into the lumber. This was madness! I started forward, intending to catch up, but almost immediately collided with another barrel. My breath hitched. Perhaps Holmes' keen senses could navigate this blackness, but mine could not: I had no choice but to wait.

I do not know exactly how long I stood there, barely breathing, before the darkness exploded. I threw up a hand to shield my eyes, gasping in shock.

"Calm down, old fellow!" The voice, though barely a whisper, was blessedly familiar. "You see now why I could not use the lamp."

I lowered my hand, blinking streaming eyes. He stood before me, the dark-lantern raised, its shield lifted. "I do, but next time kindly explain beforehand – and for both our sakes, don't sneak up on a man like that!"

He nodded silently, waving me forward. "I've found it. This way."

We did not travel much farther before he stopped me again, pointing across our corridor at the opposing tumble of barrels. I squinted at it. "Which one?" I whispered in his ear.

"That one." He pointed. "It should be obvious. The fuse in its top, the pine wood, the large number 5 on its side..."

"Point taken." I paused. "What do you plan to do now?"

"The bomb is inside. We must disassemble it."

"We? Holmes, I'm a doctor, not a demolitionist..."

"But you've a steady hand and steadier nerves, and I know the anarchists' techniques."

"And one wrong move could blow up half of London."

"Indeed it could." Holmes cast an appraising eye over the barrel. "Quite a stroke of genius, placing it in the same warehouse as shipments of flour, lamp-oil, and gunpowder. Less brilliant to use chemical explosives with which I am so familiar. We shall have plenty of time to defuse our modern Guy Fawkes' plots."

Seeing from his stoic mask that it would be no use arguing with him, I once again braced myself. "All right... You lead the way."


	7. Detective

_A/N: Anyone with ideas for future Blast It All entries, do please send them my way... my wellspring of ideas is running rather muddy lately._

**Detective**

"So, Watson, what can you tell me about—"

"No."

Holmes turned from the window with a start, back to the table and his biographer. One of his eyebrows arched eloquently. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said no." Watson glared at his flat-mate and settled pointedly into the depths of his armchair, his leg propped stiffly on the ottoman before him. "I'm a doctor, not a detective, and at the moment I am _profoundly _uninterested in deducing games."

Holmes blinked in actual puzzlement. "Why, old fellow, whatever is the matter?"

"You have to ask?" The doctor threw back a deep gulp of whiskey.

The detective studied his friend for a moment. Gradually his puzzlement faded, replaced directly with something rather like sympathy and horror. "Heavens... The Sutterfield twins, Mrs. Wright, and a runaway cab, _in the same day?"_

Watson favored him with a grim, mirthless smile, barely a lengthening of compressed lips. "The twins had shingles."

Without another word, Holmes rose from the window seat and crossed to his violin case. Before Watson's eyes had opened, he had launched into a lilting, soothing Brahms _lied_—one of his friend's favorites. With his own eyes fixed in concentration on the music, he could not see Watson's quiet smile.


	8. Practiced Cellist

_A/N: In response to many reader requests, and in hopes of getting my wellspring to pass as drinking water again, here's the aftermath of the duet. (If you don't get it, reread chapter two.)_

**Practiced Cellist**

First a squawk, as the strings below the bridge are suddenly tweaked and cry out in startled protest. Then a soft, sharp snap as the hairs catch on the fine tuners and many give way. Finally, a resonant clatter of wood on wood as fine rosewood meets floorboards. That, gentle reader, is the sound of a cello bow falling from an exhausted doctor's fingers as his body finally cries _no more._

Such a sound I should never have thought to chronicle in such meticulous detail. By the time I had occasion to hear it, though, I had progressed to that stage of exhaustion where _everything_ is meticulous detail. No larger concepts remained to bind together the flood of sense data: Fierce, twisting pain in my shoulder. The ghost of pressure against my left hand's fingertips after they dropped from the strings. Black hair and a grey dressing-gown. Curtain smells, tinged with a chemical reek. A disjointed, vaguely hallucinatory stream of syllables... my friend was speaking.

With an effort, I dragged myself back to the here and now, carefully fitting the sounds together. Ah. "Watson," he'd said, "are you all right?"

I managed a weary chuckle. "I think I've had enough music for one day."

"Are you sure? You've been doing beautifully since we started on the Corelli--"

Between piecing together his question and formulating my own response, my tired brain should have taken much longer to answer him than it actually did."Holmes, _both _my shoulders are afire; my eardrums, plus I dare say yours, are agreeing most vehemently with my shoulder; my fingers are made of lead; and our landlady has literally fled the premises, possibly along with the neighbors." Exhaustion and annoyance had my bull-pup yapping at the end of his leash. At least it hadn't broken loose. "I'm a doctor, not a practiced cellist. I assure you, old friend, _I have had enough."_

His gaze softened. "I suppose I'm lucky you haven't yet collapsed and crushed the poor instrument." Setting his violin aside, safely in its case, he crossed to take the cello from my nerveless arms.

I lay back limply, closing my eyes.

"Oh, and don't worry, old fellow," came his voice. "I'll wake you before you sleep the week away."


End file.
